


A Great Adventure Or Nothing

by placentalmammal



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Deaf Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deaf since birth, the Courier wakes up in Goodsprings after being attacked and left for dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Great Adventure Or Nothing

Agatha’s memory was scattershot, riddled with holes. She remembered kneeling in the dirt in the graveyard, her wrists bound and a man in a suit standing over her. She remembered the moonlight reflecting off the gun trained on her head, and she remembered the muzzle flash, bright as lightning. After that, she didn’t remember much of anything.

A week after the man shot her, she woke in a narrow twin bed with tubes in her arms and she followed them to an IV stand in the corner. Her throat was dry and her skull felt like an overripe melon, ready to burst. She put a shaking hand to her forehead and felt a thick wad of gauze underneath a hard ridge of plaster. She let out a cry of distress and her hands went to the tubes in her arms.

An alarm must have gone off, because the partition drew back suddenly, and a man was there, hands on her arms, steadying her. She looked up into his face, and his mouth was moving, too quickly for her to make out his words. She imagined he was saying something soothing, telling her to calm down. He had a pleasant smile, and a mustache that reminded her of her father.

She let her hands fall to her sides and he sat back, drawing a chair up to her bedside. He spoke again and she peered through the gloom at him. She caught only a few words of his sentence--“damage” and “name,” and the rest was unintelligible.

Instead of answering, she signed I am Deaf, tracing a line from ear to mouth, hoping that he would understand.

He frowned, confused, and spoke again, lips forming a question.

Agatha shook her head and made a gesture like writing against her palm. Sudden understanding crossed his face and he turned to his desk. The writing surface was crowded with papers and esoteric medical texts. He produced a pencil and clipboard from the pile and passed them to her.

She wrote AGATHA NOLAN across the paper in big, block letters. Underneath, she wrote I AM DEAF.

The doctor nodded and gestured for the clipboard. She returned it to him and he wrote, _Doc Mitchell. You’re in Goodsprings._ The pencil hovered over the page for a moment. Cringing, he wrote, _You were shot._

She took the clipboard from him. I REMEMBER, she wrote impatiently. DID YOU CATCH THEM?

He shook his head, and Agatha let out a wordless noise, a strangled yelp of frustration. Doc Mitchell looked at her, wide-eyed.

WHERE DID THEY GO? she wrote, pressing so hard that the pencil snapped in her hands. I WILL KILL THEM. She underlined it twice, to make sure he understood.

There was something like pity in his expression. Agatha dropped her gaze, studying her hands in her lap. Same long, brown fingers; same short, blunt nails. Trigger callus on her pointer finger, birthmark on her palm.

The doctor put a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. _We should do tests, he wrote. Make sure you’re OK._

She nodded in agreement. Doc Mitchell carefully removed the tubes from her arms and helped her out of bed. She was unsteady on her feet but she stood unsupported. The doctor studied her, nodding to himself, offering his arm whenever she stumbled. She ignored him, making slow, faltering progress towards the Vigor Tester at the other end of the room.

Her results were what she’d expected. The week in bed had cost her muscle tone and slowed her reaction time, but she was still quick, still strong. Her eyesight was keen and clear, but she had virtually no residual hearing. Doc Mitchell raised an eyebrow at the readout and steered her into the next room for a battery of psychological tests. The results meant nothing to her, and Doc Mitchell got frustrated trying to explain. In the end, he found a change of clothes for her, and sent her on her way with a battered Pip-Boy and eighteen caps.

The doctor’s house was situated on a hill overlooking Goodsprings. It was a town like any other in the Mojave; one road and a scattering of Pre-War houses with sagging roofs and cracked vinyl siding. There was a general store and a saloon with patchwork neon signage, all built out of crumbling Pre-War businesses. Agatha shaded her eyes against the sun and looked down the road and across the desert, towards Vegas. The city’s skyline was just barely visible against the glare of the midday sun.

There was a robot waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Clinging to the railing, Agatha stared at it, perplexed. She didn’t know much about electronics, but the robot was unlike any she’d seen before. One wheel, pincer hands, and an audiovisual screen set into a metallic exoskeleton. It stood there, inert, the cowboy face on its flickering screen obscured by glare.

She watched the robot warily as she descended the stairs, ready to bolt if its casing slid back to reveal rocket launchers or machine guns. Agatha reached the bottom of the stairs, and the machine stood there, still as a statue. She gave it a wide breadth and headed towards the general store, praying that it wouldn’t follow.

The general store was airless and dim, crowded with empty shelves and busted coolers. The proprietor followed her through the store, breathing down her neck and watching her hands when she stopped to sift through a basket of loose shell casings. He was warm and welcoming as an icebox, so Agatha flipped him off and left without buying anything.

The robot was waiting for her outside of the store.

She puffed out her cheeks in irritation and tried to shoo it away, flapping her hands at it as though it were a stray dog. The robot’s screen brightened, and for the first time, she made out a line of text along the bottom of the screen.

“Howdy partner!” it said. “I’m Victor! I’m the fella that dug you out of that grave. It’s good to see you up and walking!”

She tilted her head in confusion and backed away from the machine, pressing against the door to the general store. The text blinked out, replaced by a new line. “I’m a Securitron, RobCo security model 2060-B. This unit comes standard with closed captioning for the deaf and hard-of-hearing.” Something about the text and the flickering cowboy face gave off the impression of smugness.

Agatha decided that she didn’t like the robot. She glowered at it, but the text kept scrolling. “I was callin’ out hello when you came outta the doctor’s place. When you walked on by, I reckoned you couldn’t hear me, so I enabled close captioning for yer convenience.”

She touched her lips with her fingertips and let her hand drop, signing thank you. She added an eyeroll to convey sarcasm, and tried to shoo Victor away again. She walked past him again, but he followed, undeterred. “Now if yer lookin’ for someone to talk to besides ol’ Victor, Easy Pete had a deaf wife some years back. He could help set you to rights and get you on yer way.”

She stopped short. _Where,_ she signed, heart pounding in her throat.

“Now, Pete has a little house here in Goodsprings, but he likes to spend his days at Trudy’s place. That’s the saloon, just up ahead. I reckon he’ll be out on the porch, enjoying this fine weather we been having.”

Agatha set out again, jogging in the hopes the robot couldn’t keep pace. She rounded the corner at the saloon and stepped up onto the porch. There was an oldtimer sitting out in a rocking chair, shotgun laid across his laps. He glanced her way and inclined his head in greeting, then returned his gaze to the horizon. Agatha tapped him on the shoulder to catch his attention, signing I’m Deaf just as Victor rounded the corner.

She supposed the robot must have said something in greeting, perhaps explained the situation, but she ignored him and hoped that Pete would do the same. The old man had already begun signing, finger-spelling his name, P-E-T-E.

Delighted, Agatha began signing rapidly, spelling her name, and asking what he knew about the men who’d shot her.

Pete shook his head. C-A-N-T S-I-G-N, he spelled. The process was slow and belabored, and Agatha’s heart sank. His fingers were twisted and arthritic, his letters were misshapen and difficult to parse. C-O-U-R-I-E-R-?

She nodded.

G-L-A-D Y-O-U A-L-I-V-E, he spelled, obviously pleased with himself.

Agatha couldn’t help but smile. She signed thank you and meant it, omitting the eyeroll. She spelled bad men and asked if Pete had seen them. He screwed up his face in thought, then held a finger up to say, wait.

He hauled himself up out of his chair, wincing and rubbing his knees, then spelled F-O-L-L-O-W M-E. He held the saloon door open for her and she stepped inside, grateful to be out of the sun. The door opened to a dim room, full of pool tables with torn felt and missing cues. A young woman was leaning against one of the tables, browsing a magazine with a dog at her feet, and she glanced up at their entry, breaking into a wide smile when she saw Pete.

The dog jumped up, barking, but the woman caught it by its collar and called out a greeting. The light was good and the woman spoke clearly enough that Agatha could piece her words together by lipreading. “Hey there, Pete. Who’s this?”

Pete introduced the woman as S-U-N-N-Y. Agatha smiled and waved, and Pete explained her situation to Sunny. He turned back to Agatha and spelled S-H-E K-N-O-W-S. Eagerly, Agatha turned to Sunny and gestured like writing, asking for a pad and paper, wishing she’d thought to bring the clipboard from Doc Mitchell’s.

Sunny understood her meaning immediately and left the room, her dog following at her heel. Pete introduced Agatha to the barkeeper, Trudy, who supplied them with a round of drinks and a booth in a bright corner of the saloon. A few minutes later, Sunny returned with a big sheet of butcher paper and a grease pen. The four of them piled into the booth and spread out, weighting the paper down with their beers.

I WANT TO GO AFTER THE MEN WHO SHOT ME, Agatha wrote.

Sunny took the pencil from her. She hesitated a moment and wrote _s that a good idea?_. She glanced sidelong at Agatha. _Because of your condition?_

Agatha snatched the pencil. I’M DEAF, NOT FRAGILE, she wrote furiously. I’VE BEEN A COURIER LONGER THAN YOU’VE BEEN ALIVE.

Sunny had the decency to look abashed. Trudy took the pencil. _They were in the night that_ \-- she grimaced as she wrote _Victor_ , and Agatha warmed to her immediately-- _found you._

THEY SHOT ME AND WENT OUT FOR DRINKS?

_We didn’t know._

MAD AT THEM, NOT YOU. BASTARDS.

Trudy handed the pencil to Pete. He wrote with as much difficulty as he finger-spelled, but his handwriting was neat and easy to read. _it was 1 city boy+4 thugs_

Sunny nodded and took the pencil. _Khans_ , she corrected. _They were headed to Vegas. Through Primm?_ she glanced around for support. Seeing nods, she smudged out the question mark and began to draw. Agatha craned her neck, watching over Sunny’s shoulder as she drew a series of lines and dots which connected to form a partial square. She labeled the lines and they turned into roads, the sketch into a rough map.

Pete, Trudy, and Sunny passed the grease pencil around, arguing, adding details, and crossing things out. The map came to life before Agatha’s eyes as Trudy drew in more towns and settlements, then passed the pencil to Pete. He marked out the likeliest routes to Vegas, and Sunny drew in Cazadors and Deathclaws, crossing out the dangerous areas. Agatha opened the map screen on her borrowed Pip-Boy and entered their landmarks into its databases, filling the blank maps with GPS waypoints and notes-to-self. Trudy went for more beers, and Agatha laughed at Sunny’s caricatures of Caesar’s Legion--scowling cartoon men in feathered helmets with little word bubbles proclaiming their desire to kick puppies and enslave orphans.

ACCURATE, Agatha wrote, grinning. She added some NCR to the other side of the map, little stick figures saying that surely, the Wasters wouldn’t mind if they just went ahead and colonized their home. Trudy returned with the beers and the four pissed away the afternoon working on the map, drinking and laughing. Agatha taught Trudy and Sunny how to finger-spell their names and sign a few words--dog, saloon, bar, town, water, gun.

She set out at sundown, carefully rolling up the map and tucking into her pack alongside the delivery order and the bottles of water Trudy had given her. Agatha had tried to pay, but the barkeep had refused. On house she signed, looking pleased with herself.

Agatha began to sign thank you but stopped midway and went for a hug. Trudy’s eyes widened in surprise, but she returned the gesture, patting Agatha on the back. She hugged Pete and Sunny and scratched Sunny’s dog behind the ears. B-E S-A-F-E, Pete spelled, and Agatha nodded, grinning.

Waving goodbye to Goodsprings and its people, she set out east, towards Primm with the setting sun at her back.


End file.
